Cold Nights
by Sadistic Fox
Summary: A hitman is sent to kill a nightclub owner, has been up for three days, and is getting tired of the life. We're in for an interesting night. Reviews please!
1. Chapter 1

My glorious return to this site. I've been trying to get an idea down in my head for forever, and I think I may have the beginning of something started.. I hate to disappoint anyone but my other stories on the site are probably all dead as I've no passion for them anymore. But I'll try to stick to a project a little more loyally from now on. Here you go, I apologize if I'm a little rusty, it's been awhile. Please provide constructive criticism and advice, thank you! Opinions opinions opinions, I need them! I don't care if you flame me, go ahead. I really couldn't give a damn! Have a nice day, guys!

Cold eyes gazed through a smudged and cracked windshield, facing the desolation in front of him that some people called Liberty City. It was nothing more than a highly populated cess-pool, ridden with violence, sex, and drugs. During the last decade it had become unsafe to step foot outside of one's home. There wasn't a single neighborhood, not one, that didn't have a local gang HQ within a few miles. Even the 'good' part of town, in the Shoreside Vale projects, petty street gangs had begun to expand and take over. The sky was always filled with billowing torrents of black pollution being steadily pumped into the atomosphere every day as a result of paper mills, factories, and crank labs. All through the night gun shots ring out at random times, adding to the statistics.

As the killer exhaled, he looked at his own breath, a mesmerizing cloud blowing around inside the cab of his car. He lit a cigarette and wrapped himself tighter in his worn brown coat, warding off the cold for as long as he could. His fingers had gone numb a long time ago, beginning to get difficult to move. Occasionally he'd work his right index finger a couple of times to ensure that it wouldn't lock up on him at an inappropriate time. As the killer's eyelids became heavier and heavier, he had to try harder to keep himself conscious. Three days of no sleep's worth of exhaustion was taking it's toll, giving him the shakes, chills, nodding off constantly, etc.

As the familiar smell of smoke filled his senses, he inhaled deeply, sucking up as much of the death haze as he could. The cigs calmed him down when he needed it, he considered the threat of lung cancer a fair price to pay for the comfort he found in the tobacco and nicotine. There was one other thing that could give him comfort like that, and that was the feel of the cold steel of his glock pressed against his chest within his coat. With his gun on his person, he'd often feel invincible, almost hoping someone would mess with him.

A light rain began to fall, making the pavement glisten. Ghostly reflections of street lamps and car headlights were cast everywhere, making his brain throb. He squinted slightly in a vain attempt to see to the end of the street he was on. One of the shadiest looking streets in the city. All around him porn shops, sketchy internet cafe's, laundromats, and a sleazy strip club glared at him like towering creatures warning him to get out of their territory. He didn't feel he belonged here, and wanted to leave as soon as possible. That's why it was essential to get the job done tonight, without a hitch. It had to be perfect so he could go home, drink a beer, and go to sleep. He could take a few months off, fly down to Miami and relax. He was being worn down by all the work lately, dirty, hard work that always contained difficulty. Barge into a Triad laundromat and demand protection money, crack someone's ribs who happened to be in debt to people higher on the ladder than himself, make a bartender disappear... It was bad. The pay was pretty good for this line of work, so he kept with it. But this job, this job was huge. He'd proved his worth in the last few months so he was trusted. The pay was unbelievable. Make Luigi Goterelli a grease spot and he had himself two hundred grand.

Every night for the past year, at around midnight, the short, squat italian nightclub owner would pull up in his sleazy limousine and go inside. He'd hung himself by following such a strict schedule. Anyone who wanted him dead knew where he was at night, and right when he'd get there. A sitting duck, nothing could go wrong. However, it wouldn't be as easy as it might have sounded. When he gets out of the car, he's inside within seconds, surrounded on all sides by four hulking bodyguards that would gladly tear a man's spine out of their back to protect their boss. He'd had to kill him fast, before he could reach the safety of the inside. Italians, they're either fanatically loyal or dangerously treacherous, always unpredictable. He didn't trust the wop bastards, having too many bad experiences.

Still waiting. His eyelids felt like solid steel now, almost impossible to hold open. He'd slap himself, stick himself in the arm with his lit cigarette, anying to keep him awake. But everything was failing, it was hopeless.. His vision became hazy, shapes hard to make out. The sounds of beat up cars rolling slowly across the asphalt became distant, and he could faintly feel his forehead resting against the soft leather of his steering wheel, no memory of his head falling forward. He gave up fighting and let the exhaustion overcome him.

He fell asleep on the job. 


	2. Chapter 2

The world swayed violently in the killer's mind as he made the painful transition into consciousness. His surroundings seemed pixilated and time slowed down. His eyes were hard to open at first as he still felt heavily exhausted.

The thing he noticed first, was the intensity of the cold. It was much worse now than it had been before he had crashed. This thought led to the realization that he was no longer in his car. His pulse quickened immediately and his groggy eyes widened as he felt the familiar feel of pavement on his back. A weak breeze blew over his face, stinging his face which he had just realized was streaked with blood.

As he shook his head to clear his vision, he noticed a small gathering of people standing around him and voices that seemed to flow out of his ears as quickly as they had flowed in. It was as if every bit of his sub-conscious was screaming at him. He thought his head might explode as he tried to grab a hold of himself and let the fact that he was most likely minutes away from death sink in. Preparation for this feeling didn't seem possible. He'd fucked up badly, and this reached a personal high score for botched jobs.

The voices were clearer now as the gathering above him discussed their plans with one another.

"Let's shoot him, no one'll care. Fifty bucks says he was after Luigi. We found this on him." Thick Italian accents. This one sounded cocky, and possibly had a few drinks in him by now. As the killer slowly blinked away the blood in his eyes he saw the fancily dressed wop holding his glock by the barrel, showing it to one of his goons.

Another voices began, this one higher and more obnoxious, "I think Lu would probably like to see this guy, do what he pleases with him. Who knows, he may just turn him over to us anyway.

The killer began examining his options carefully, struggling to formulate a plan in his mind. His mind was clearing up now, it was becoming easier to hold a thought. Relatively sure that they still thought he was unconscious, the killer closed his eyes. Something was pressing uncomfortably into his back from underneath his near-frozen body. Step one of the plan was complete as the killer realized this was his switch blade that he kept in his back pocket. Judging by the way it felt, it had slipped out and was behind his lower torso.

His eyes opened just far enough to peak through his eyelids. Three people. They looked tough, probably club security. Knowing Luigi, they were definitely armed. He had step two straight in his head.

All of the goons seemed like they had consumed their fair shares of alcohol. They weren't quite all there. This gave the killer a slight advantage. Step three.

He had a plan.

His eyelids opened once more, this time wide enough to be noticed. The gaze of all three of the goons was directed toward him.

"He's awake." The annoying, high pitched voice from before noted.

The killer stretched his right arm to assure them that he was indeed conscious once more. They each took a step toward him. He let a groan escape his lips, hoping it didn't sound too put-on.

"Hey, fucker, what's your name?" The loudest of the bunch asked, sounding overly-aggressive and wreck less.

The killer sat up slightly, trying to shift the undetected switchblade to a more reachable position.

"Lay the fuck down!" The drunken goon yelled as he reached a strong, muscle loaded arm down to put the killer back in place.

So he made his move. Rapidly, almost without thinking he spun around and wrapped his stiff, freezing fingers around the warm pearl grip of his knife. A swift 'snikt' rang out as he pressed the small metal button, prompting the razor-sharp blade to pop out menacingly.

Aided by a massive rush of pure adrenaline, the killer's outstretched arm swung toward the goon's calf. There was a sickening moment as the goon's skin attempted to resist the blade. It failed as a nauseating pop let the killer know he'd hit his mark. An agonized, helpless yelp broke the night's uneasy peacefulness in outstanding fashion. The killer didn't have any time to spare; he sprung to his feet after tearing his blade from the goon's leg and pushed the man down.

With amazing speed considering the circumstances, the killer lunged for the obnoxious little Italian who was still trying to register what was going on. He crashed into him with brutal force, bringing himself and the goon to the ground. As the killer turned to face the remaining mobster, he held the stunned goon in front of him as a shield. The remaining goon, before he could stop himself, fired at the killer.

An awful gasp rose from his throat and a thin cloud of smoke rose quickly into the night sky as the gunshot echoed off of surrounding buildings as if to emphasize the importance of what had just happened. The killer's eyes narrowed as some sort of feral rage took control of him.

The goon had made a perfect human shield, but his purpose was exhausted. His limp body, now adorned with a fresh bullet hole from his own friend's gun, crumpled sadly to the ground. A flash was all the remaining goon saw as his alcohol-clouded body felt itself crashing to the ground under the weight of an angry hitman. He didn't feel the pain as his skull met with the pavement several times. Everything faded fast.

Everything was silent again except for the groaning and cursing of the only living goon, who laid on his side trying to work up the courage to tear the knife from his leg. The killer did it for him, but the relief was short lived. The goon was dead in seconds as the killer swiped skillfully at his throat, spraying his life all over the pavement.

The killer shakily stood up straight, unconsciously wiping the knife clean on his shirt. His thumb pressed down on the button and the blade retreated back into the handle, having done it's job well.

The killer's chest heaved heavily as the adrenaline began to fade and he was once more aware of just how tired he was. He was momentarily oblivious to the cold as his face poured sweat, washing away some of the blood. His head throbbed from some unseen injury on it. He'd worry about that later.

The killer sprinted away quickly, praying to himself that no one had stumbled upon the scene yet.


End file.
